First Star I See Tonight
by Crystal Sampson
Summary: Because Winchester luck dictates that Dean's genie in a bottle could be neither Barbara Eden nor Christina Aguilera. Instead, he gets a fat guy with some serious hygiene issues and a mean streak a mile wide. Supernatural Summergen entry for 2016. Rated T for foul language.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** This was written for sinfulslasher for the SummerGen 2016 challenge over on livejournal. The full master list is up. You should go read some of the awesome stuff that got posted this year.

 **Disclaimer:**

a) I do not, nor have I ever owned any part of Supernatural. The characters were just so pretty-shiny, I had to borrow them.

b) My knowledge of injuries, Arabic, genies, and Haxton, CO is based entirely off what I could Google in an afternoon. Andy medical, linguistic, supernatural, or geographical errors are mine alone.  
-

"Why are you being like this," Dean screamed. Sam was standing there in the doorway to the room Dean had hidden in, seething and sniffling and all around glaring at Dean.

"Because I've had enough. Why are you such a child!?"

"It's milk," Dean said, trying to regain some of his calm. The only reason they were even fighting was because Sam was sick and bitchy. It would pass. "Just milk. You'll live without your Lucky Charms for one day."

Sam punched the door frame. "It's not about the fucking milk! It's about the fact that you never pick up after yourself. Today it's the three drops of milk you put back in the fridge. Yesterday it was the toilet paper you couldn't bother to replace. Before that it was your stupid, muddy boots strewn across the living room floor."

"So what is it that's really bothering you Sam?"

"Why do you never _do_ anything around here? I'm always picking up your crap!"

Dean's hands balled into fists. "I never pick up my crap? I do everything around here! Just because I'm not some OCD neat _freak_ , doesn't give you the right to act like I don't. Hell, if I did anymore, I'd be changing your diapers."

Sam flashed from angry, to shocked, to hurt. Dean saw tears collecting in his eyes. Dammit. He'd gone too far. Even he knew that, but Sam had gone there first. He could see Sam trying to blink away the moisture in his eyes, trying to prove he wasn't as childish as Dean claimed. Dean knew it was just because he was sick, his defenses were down. Any other day, that comment would have kicked the argument up a notch.

Sam turned, hiding the hurt. When he spoke, his tone was the perfect balance of loathing and anger. "Glad we cleared that up, _Dad_."

Sam left, storming up the hall.

Dean bit his tongue to keep from yelling after his brother. Instead, he whirled and kicked a cardboard box that was sitting against the wall, satisfied when the side crumpled in with a dull thud. He knew he really should be more careful. The Men of Letters could have any sort of mystical whoosit stashed around that wouldn't appreciate being kicked. The guilt passed quickly as he heard Sam's gargantuan feet on the stairs, probably retreating to his bedroom to sulk.

Sam was sick. It wasn't anything serious, just enough to make him miserable. He had looked better that morning, but apparently that had been a fleeting reprieve. Even now, Dean could hear him snuffling and panting just climbing the stairs.

Dean glared down at the box. The light caught on something shiny inside, glinting just enough to catch his eye. He huffed and scooped up the box, dropping it on the table along the wall with a thud. Knowing his luck, he had probably managed to break the one thing that could save the world from the next apocalypse. Figures.

He pried open the flaps, resolutely ignoring the little voice that sounded suspiciously like Sam saying this was a bad idea. Normally he would check the register before he went looting just to make sure he didn't get into a room full of nasty. This was one of the unlocked rooms. The warding on the door was pretty mild. If there was anything in there, it wasn't likely to be very dangerous. Besides, he needed some new swag and he couldn't listen to Sam whine another minute.

Dean dug through the contents, laying each item out on the table in a neat row. There was a stone knife about as long as his forearm with characters carved into the blade – maybe ancient Sumerian if he had to guess – that would look pretty awesome hanging on his wall. Next was a large, round copper plate with an inscription that he couldn't decipher, but which appeared to be along the same lines as the knife. There was a carved sandstone figure of a toad with glittering black stones for eyes that seemed to watch him as he moved, definitely too freaky to leave sitting on his desk, and a tightly wound scroll.

The last thing inside the box, tucked away in the opposite corner from where he'd kicked in the side, was a cylindrical package wrapped up in brown paper and sealed with a glob of green sealing wax. It was unexpectedly heavy for being no bigger than the length of his hand. He broke the seal with his pocket knife and carefully unwrapped the paper. On the reverse side, he found symbols he was more familiar with; hunting marks for binding, a few minor wards, and some low level witch type symbols. It all looked to have been designed to keep the object from breaking while it was being transported.

A foot of crumpled paper later Dean was left holding a small, green porcelain bottle decorated with delicate veins of gold. It was thin necked and flared around the bottom. The tiny cork in the top was crowned with a shaped ruby. The entire thing screamed Middle East in that hokey, tourist trap way.

He was tempted to peek inside, but every instinct he'd ever had screamed not to. He shook it, expecting the contents to shift. It was far too heavy to just be an empty knickknack. It didn't make a sound. There was no sloshing, no swishing, and definitely no thumping. Dean was perplexed as to what could possibly be inside.

His hand hesitated over the cork. Before he could do anything, he heard the creaking of the floor as someone approached the stairs to the lower level. The hinges squeaked as the door at the top of the stairs swung open. He stared down at the bottle and waited.

"Dean?" Sam sounded rough, like his voice was made of brittle paper. Dean grimaced, letting his thumb trace over the gold patterns and sighed. Sam sounded pathetic. The idiot had probably forgotten to take his medicine again.

"Just once," he muttered as he tucked the bottle into his pocket followed shortly by the knife. "Just once I'd like to be the one being looked after." He dumped the other things back into the box and flipped the light out as he left the room.

He met Sam at the top of the stairs. His brother was pale with bright spots of color on his cheeks and sweat on his brow. He stared at Dean with glassy eyes. Maybe he wasn't feeling as better as he had looked that morning. He was leaning against the wall and when he saw Dean his posture sagged. Dean had a suspicion that he could probably sleep where he was and never know the difference.

"Don't feel so good," Sam said in a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah. When's the last time you took your meds?" Dean asked.

"Hmm?"

Dean frowned. "Medicine. Have you taken anything recently?"

Sam stared at him a long time before he finally blinked and said, "Um, no?"

"Right," Dean said with a sigh. "Let's get you in bed."

Sam shook his head and pulled back a little. "No, I gotta apologize."

Dean hooked Sam's arm over his shoulder and moved so that he could support him. "What for?"

Sam stumbled forward a few steps under Dean's guidance. He seemed to consider for a moment. "I…I don't remember." He said before launching into a coughing fit that made Dean wince.

"Right," Dean said, guiding him down the hall. "Well, you can figure it out in the morning."

Between the two of them, they made it back through the halls and to Sam's bedroom. Dean flipped the light on and propped Sam against the door. The place was a disaster. Discarded clothes littered the floor, and the sheets lay tangled and strewn half across the bedroom.

Dean made his way to the bed, kicking books and clothes aside to clear a path as he went. With a few brisk flaps of the sheets and a crisp tuck to the corners, he had made the bed and was getting Sam situated.

After a brief tussle with the thermometer, Dean was swearing under his breath. Sam was basically supernovic. He was reading at 104.3, creeping into the dangerously high zone. Dean shoved pills at Sam and stood over him as he chased them down with a glass of tepid water, not that Sam was coherent enough to care. He'd lost whatever real fight he'd had to remain lucid about the time they stumbled into the room. Dean was just waiting for him to drift off.

He knew he wouldn't be going far until that fever was under control. Instead, he gathered up all the clothes from the floor and dumped them in the basket in the corner of the room. That done, he started to collect the books that had been strewn haphazardly around the bed and stacked them neatly on the desk, taking a moment to swipe a pile of tissues into the trashcan. He should get paid for hazardous working conditions. He set the can next to the bed, just in case as Sam started to snore.

With Sam sleeping, Dean grabbed the clothes basket and hauled it to the back of the bunker to the laundry room. He had already been planning to throw a load in, so he just added Sam's things to the pile. He took his time sorting everything and started a load. That done, he wandered into the kitchen, more out of habit than any real purpose.

He supposed he should go check on Sam. The kid would need liquids when he woke up and he wanted to monitor that fever. He mixed together some of the powdered Gatorade they had in the cabinet and carried it back to Sam's room. He set the glass on the nightstand for when his brother woke up. He took a moment to swipe the back of his hand over Sam's forehead, relieved when he found some of the fever had dissipated. Sam was still hot, but the Tylenol had taken the edge off.

Dean glanced at his watch. If he was lucky, Sam would surface sometime around six or so. Between slight nip in the air, and Sam's rabbiting appetite lately, he figured soup would make a good dinner for them. He might even have the stuff left to make a loaf of bread.

Somewhere between pulling out chicken to defrost and chopping vegetables, Dean felt himself relax. This is what he really enjoyed. Not sick little brothers, but providing for his family.

He knew Sam didn't understand. To him, providing was being stable and settled. It was bringing home a check at the end of the day and mowing the lawn. It was keeping the Impala stocked with licorice because he knew it was Dean's favorite or watching monster movie marathons when one of them was down.

Dean loved him for it, but that was the extra stuff. Having a place to call home was something he'd never even thought to dream of. Providing for his family meant clean clothes and warm food. It was having a roof over their heads and hustling pool to pay for it if he had to. It was knowing enough first aid to handle most things and having enough ammunition to make sure he never needed the knowledge. Dean took pride in the little things, like making soup. And if Sam made a crack or two about Martha Stewart, he could wash his own rank socks.

It was closer to seven than six when Sam finally shuffled into the kitchen. Dean had been periodically checking on him and had shoved another round of Tylenol down him an hour or so back. He was still feverish, eyes still glassy, but he was a little more coherent. He sank down in a chair at the table and groaned.

"Can't you just shoot me now?"

Dean snorted. "So feeling nice and refreshed, I take it."

Sam slumped forward so his head was laying on his arm across the table. His eyes were lidded and Dean was a little worried he'd fall asleep there. "If you're going to start snoring, at least go back to bed so I don't have to listen to it."

"Sick of laying down."

Dean shrugged. "Think you could eat something?"

Sam's eyes slipped closed. "Too tired."

But Dean already had a bowl full of soup and was setting it in front of Sam, who stared blearily at it for a few seconds before propping himself up enough to eat. A chunk of bread found its way to Sam's spot before Dean collected his own portion and sat across from him. Sam picked at the bread and ate a bite before turning his attention to the soup. It took him a full thirty seconds to chew and swallow and another minute to pick up his spoon. Dean was relieved to see him ladle a spoonful up.

"S' good," he said.

Dean hummed in response. They stayed that way, Dean eating and Sam trudging through his soup. Finally Sam heaved a sigh. "How much more do I have to eat?"

Dean glanced down at the half full bowl. "One more."

Sam dutifully sucked down another spoonful before he gave up and went back to laying across the table.

Dean finally took pity on him. "All right, bed or couch?"

Sam grunted.

"Table ain't one of your options."

"Time's it?"

"Bout eight."

"Bed."

Dean nodded and got up to haul Sam to his feet. Together they went back to Sam's room and settled him there. Dean spent the rest of the evening periodically checking on Sam and digging through the Men of Letters catalog to find the records for his mystery objects.

br/br

They rode out the next few days until Sam felt more like a human being with the tacit agreement not to talk about their argument at all. Mostly this involved a lot of Netflix and popcorn. Sam's fever broke the second day and he was up and shuffling about the next. He was still tired easily, which grated at him, leaving him huffing in annoyance when Dean told him to go take a nap.

A day after Sam had gotten up and moving under his own steam, he brought Dean a hunt. Dean suspected it was a peace offering.

"I think I found us something." Sam's voice was still a little hoarse, but he seemed to be doing fine otherwise.

"Oh, yeah?" Dean asked. "What kind of thing?"

"A hunt a couple of towns over. Looks like a restless spirit. Should be a simple salt and burn."

"Are you sure you're up to doing anything of the sort?" Dean said, finally sitting up and looking at Sam properly. He was still pale, but he was doing much better.

Sam sighed and sank down in a chair at the table. "I'm fine Dean. Besides, this should be an easy one. I think I've figured out who it is. We just need to do the grunt work. Take us two days, tops."

"Alright, so what do you have?"

"Daniel Morse, 35, owner of a local jewelry store, was killed six months back in a bad car wreck just outside of town. He wasn't exactly well liked by any standard. His kids closed the shop and sold the building last month."

"And?"

"There have been people claiming the building is haunted. There have been reports of strange noises and lights coming from over there at night too."

"So you thinking poltergeist?"

"Nah. The scope's not big enough for a poltergeist, just one seriously pissed of ghost of a grumpy old man."

"Where is this grumpy old man?"

"In Haxtun, CO. It's like a 3 hour drive from here." Sam slid the papers he'd been reading from over to Dean.

"So, northern Colorado then," Dean asked. "Man, last time we drove that there was nothing but construction. Take us twice that to get anywhere near there."

Sam shrugged. "Sound like something you want to pick up, or should I forward it on?"

Dean took a minute to grumble about the horror of taking his car through construction zones, but finally acquiesced. "Fine, sure. We've been sitting still too long anyway. Let's do it. But we're waiting a couple of days."

"What? Why?"

Dean narrowed his eyes ate his brother. "When you can walk down the hall without panting, we'll go."

Sam scowled, "Fine."

Dean chuckled and collected his dishes. He ruffled Sam's hair as he walked by, earning himself a scowl in the process. "Don't worry, Princess. We'll be back to chasing ghosts in no time."

Sam just rolled his eyes and leaned forward to collect some old book that had been left on the table, flipping it open curiously. Dean decided he'd leave Sam to his books. Kid could entertain himself all day with one of those musty old things. Instead, he made his way back to his room intending to examine the objects he'd found a little more closely.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean sat down at his desk, pulling out the file he'd snaked from the Men of Letters catalogue, and opening it in front of him. He'd finally gotten a chance while Sam was snoring through Indiana Jones the other day, to flip through the files and find the one for the room he'd been in.

He pulled open the file, wrinkling his nose at the typical dusty smell that assaulted him, making him want to sneeze. He and Sam, barring some sort of impending apocalypse or threat of untold evil, should try and digitize some of the records eventually. He knew Sam had been itching to do something of the sort for years now. Dean was dreading it, aside from the potential exploring it would require. Sitting and logging things for hours on end sounded like Hell on earth – one of the few tortures he'd not managed to endure in his lifetime.

He was presented with the typical log of all the artifacts in the room. It basically just listed each item by call number and location. Behind the inventory was a more detailed archival entry for each object. The knife was apparently from Egypt, but the writing was Sumerian as he'd first guessed. It had been used for purification rituals. It could theoretically kill a ghost, although that claim had never been put to the test as far as he could tell.

The bottle had been collected because it was supposedly a genie's bottle, but the battle with Abaddon had happened before anyone could do anything about it. It seemed really unclear what they had intended to do with it – whether they had planned to try and slay it, use it, or simply see if it actually existed. There were reference notes that Dean had picked up, but they were all about djinn in general, nothing he didn't already know. He had never heard of a djinn actually being bound in a bottle or lamp or even Tupperware for that matter.

He picked up the ornate bottle from its spot on the corner of his desk and held it in his palm. The gold inlay held a soft warmth in the low lighting of his bedroom. It was beautiful, if a little gaudy. Dean grinned. A genie in a bottle, huh?

He'd blame his next few actions on his love for TV Land reruns and a serious middle school crush on Barbara Eden. Also on the fact that what followed was quite honestly _not_ how djinn were supposed to work at all.

Dean wasn't quite stupid enough to take the cork out of the bottle. He'd seen the binding rune carved into the base of the ruby and the bottle's unusual weight would have been enough to make him believe there was something inside. But he couldn't help himself. "All right, genie. Come on out. Let's see if you're real."

Letting the bottle lay delicately across his palm, he rubbed his hand across the body of the porcelain.

He was entirely unprepared for a thick, blue smoke to start pouring out around the cork. He almost dropped the bottle, barely holding on to it with the tips of his fingers. The smoke billowed out and collected on the floor, creating a low, dense fog over the carpet. When the last wisps floated down, the smoke began to coalesce into a form, growing taller and more concentrated. Finally it settled into the shape of a person, and with a tight twisting that happened so fast Dean barely saw it, a squat man appeared before him.

Whatever thoughts of attractive, exotic blonds he'd held before fled when faced with the thing standing in front of him. He was short, coming maybe to Dean's chest, and bald. He was wearing clothes that looked like maybe he'd been reading to many romance novel descriptions of the Middle East. He had long pants that might have once been white but had turned a spotted yellow color. They flared at the bottom before being cuffed at his ankles. Over that he wore a short, open vest of a greying blue that did little to hide his thick pelt of curly brown chest hair, which he scratched at absently as he eyed Dean. Or the large drape of belly that curved over the waistband of his pants. He stood barefoot about three inches above Dean's bedroom floor, which was something of a relief as his feet were as hairy as his chest and coated in grime. In fact the only thing that didn't seem to be sprouting hair was his head, which was shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

"What the…" Dean said. It was the only intelligent thought in his head at the moment.

"What the Hell do you want, kid?" The man said. His voice was rough and graveled.

Dean stared at him. He didn't look like any djinn he'd ever seen before. "What are you?"

"You rubbed, didn't ya? What exactly did you expect to happen?"

"Nothing."

"Great. Just fucking great. First job in ages and I get a moron."

"Excuse you," Dean said, beginning to get his bearings again.

The man had begun pacing. "It's bad enough I get crammed in that thing, but now I gotta explain the whole shtick." He paused to look Dean up and down. "Look, you rubbed the lamp," he said, speaking loud enough that Dean took a step back. "I came out. You get the picture yet?"

"So you're a genie, then. A real genie."

"No I'm a sea cucumber. And technically I'm a jinn."

"But genie in a lamp. That's a fairy tale. Kid's stuff."

"Right, well do you want your wishes or not? I got things to do so either get to it or fuck off."

"Wait just one minute there. Wishes."

"Good, God. How did you make it to adulthood? Wishes. Three of them. Didn't your mother read you bedtime stories?"

Dean flinched, but plowed on. "Okay, wishes. So what's the catch?"

"I don't do dead people. I don't dick around with making people love you. I don't fuck with time. No going back and fixing mistakes, no meeting future spawn. And I'm not an assassin, so if you want someone dead, kill 'em yourself. I do make a pretty mean poison, if you're interested."

"Yeah, yeah. And it'll cost me what? My soul? Firstborn son?"

"Do I look like a demon to you?"

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

"We're cousins. Got it? Cousins. Barely even related. As if I'd stoop to their level."

"You still didn't answer the question."

The jinn shrugged. "Doesn't work that way. I'm the guy in the bottle. I grant the wishes. You're the moron who rubbed the bottle. You make the wishes. It's a strictly business relationship."

"There's always a catch. Last one of your kind I ran into strung me up and drugged me to the gills. It was all just a fantasy."

"If I had that kind of juice, I wouldn't be stuck in the micro apartment from Hell."

"And how does that work anyway. How'd you end up in a bottle?"

"There was a sorcerer – now that was real power – and a poor decision on my part. A chant and a binding spell later, here we are. Took out the bastard's kids before he managed it though." The genie grinned, his filed teeth glinting in the light.

"Right…." Dean said. The more he heard, the less he liked this whole situation. "Given all that lovely information, I think I'm going to pass."

"Seriously? Universe at your fingertips and you're 'going to pass'?"

"Yup. So back into the bottle for you. I know that symbol. You're bound to it. You ain't going anywhere, so go on. Get."

"Go to Hell." He said and sat down right in Dean's floor.

Dean pulled out the knife he'd prepared just in case. It was long, with a wicked curve at the end, high quality silver, and had been dipped in lamb's blood. He let the full meaning of it sink in before he said, "You didn't think I'd come in totally unprepared did you?"

The bald man huffed, but jumped to his feet. "Come on," he whined. "I've been stuck in that fucking thing for centuries. Eight of them, in fact. I'm so fucking bored. Just one little wish. Hell, I'll make you a sandwich if you want. Just throw me a bone here."

Dean turned a little green at the thought. He remembered all too well the last magically conjured sandwich he'd eaten and didn't want a repeat of the experience.

His next remark was interrupted by a faint, grating call of, "Dean!" Just from his tone, Dean could tell that Sam was overly excited about something, which probably meant he'd found some obscure, geeky passage.

Kid shouldn't even be shouting with his voice all for shit. "Dean!"

There was a muffled crash and tumble. Dean thought it sounded a lot like falling books. He paused, wondering if he'd misjudged the situation, but Sam called again, "Dean? Come here! You're gonna want to see this!"

There was no panic or desperation, only excitement.

"In a minute, Sam," he yelled.

"Hurry!"

Dean rolled his eyes. Trust Sam to pick the worst time to interrupt. Was five minutes too much to ask? "The only thing I want is some peace and quiet, so unless you've got that up your sleeve, we're done here. You can go the easy way or the hard way," Dean said, waving the knife a little to get his point across.

A Cheshire grin spread over the genie's face, pulling his lips over his pointed teeth. "That I can do!"

The man straightened, clapped twice, and then dissolved back into the smoke that he'd emerged as. The smoke began filtering into the bottle as Dean watched, finally leaving nothing but the intricately decorated bottle sitting on his desk rocking a little from the force of the genie's quick exit.

Dean frowned, not entirely sure he liked what had just happened. He eyed the bottle, but decided it was better safe than sorry. He collected it and tucked it into his shirt pocket, afraid that if he left it there, the occupant might just decide to have a little fun in his room. He had no idea if the genie could emerge if he hadn't first been summoned.

Dean cast one last glance over his room then left to go find Sam.

He made his way down the hall towards the front of the bunker. He'd left Sam reading in the war room and he assumed that Sam had found something interesting. He'd better have. If he was just hollering for food or something Dean would murder him.

He'd gone about halfway when a hand landed on his shoulder. A hand that was presumable attached to a body that he had not noticed was behind him. Sam had been silent for several minutes now. Were they being attacked? Had something gotten into the bunker? He didn't think, he just moved. He grabbed the hand, whirling around and shoving the person behind him up against the wall, wrenching their arm up behind their back.

Only to stop, mid motion when he realized he recognized the shaggy head of hair attached to the intruder's body. He let the arm drop. "What the fuck, Sam," he said.

Only he didn't hear himself say it.

"What the fuck?" He said again, with just as much comprehension as last time.

Sam whirled to face him, rubbing his shoulder and looking pissy. He was talking, but Dean had no idea what he was saying. He couldn't hear Sam either.

"What the fuck!"

Sam frowned. Apparently Dean's response had been non sequitur enough to tell Sam something was wrong.

"Sam, if you've done something and this is your fault, I'm going to make you wish you were never born. I'm going to…"

But anything he could come up with paled in comparison with the panic clawing its way up his throat. Sam grabbed him by the elbows, looking worried. His mouth moved but…but nothing, nothing at all.

"I can't hear you," he said.

The color drained from Sam's face. He looked Dean up and down, searching for any injury or cause of this sudden turn of events. He spoke…

"Sam, I said I can't hear you. I can't fucking hear. What the hell is going on? I – I mean –I –"

Sam cut him off by shaking him. Dean just blinked at him. Sam frowned but tapped his lips. Dean scowled. He couldn't hearing anything and now Sam wanted to play charades. Sam rolled his eyes, but tapped Dean's temple beside his eye then his lips again.

Oh, yeah. Read Sam's lips. Right. He could do that. He gave a small nod.

 _"When did this happen?"_

"Uh, just now. Like in the last five minutes."

 _"Any idea why?"_

"If I knew why, do you think I'd be standing here, talking about it?"

Sam threw his hands up. _"Okay, okay. We need to stay calm. What's the last thing you remember doing?"_

He frowned. He'd been fine in his room with the genie. The genie! Dean scowled. "Dammit!"

He yanked the bottle from his pocket and scowled down at it. Sam frowned at him, but didn't interrupt. "Come on out here," he said, polishing the side vigorously. "I know you can hear me, so get your fat ass out in this hallway, now."

Sam laid a hand on his elbow but Dean shook him off in favor of trying to rub the gold from the side of the bottle. Sam, undeterred, snatched the bottle from Dean's hand. He held it up to eye level, turning it and observing it. Finally he caught Dean's eye, _"What is this?"_

Dean nearly growled. "That's a genie in a bottle. Literally."

 _"A djinn?"_

"Not quite, apparently. He's bound to the bottle, or at least to the stopper. Check out the ruby set in the top."

Sam tipped the bottle towards him, scrutinizing the gem. He turned it, studying the symbol carved into it. _"I thought they were a myth."_

"When has anything actually turned out to be a myth?"

Sam shrugged. _"So he popped out and offered you a wish and you just took him up on it?"_

"Dude! Do I look like an idiot?" Dean snatched the bottle back. "I told him he could shove his wishes where the sun don't shine." He shook the bottle. "So you better show up soon, pudgie. Cause you've just screwed up big time."

Dean swiped his hand over the base of the bottle and the blue smoke began to form again. This time the genie took shape almost immediately. The little lump of a man stared up at Dean, foot already tapping.

 _"For God's sake, what!"_

"What did you do?"

 _"I granted your wish. For the last fucking time, this is not a difficult concept to grasp."_

"I never made a wish."

 _"Sure you did. You said you wanted peace and quiet. Well, you've got it. Nice and quiet."_

Dean stared at the genie, dumbstruck. He was having a hard time getting his head wrapped around all the ways that sentence was screwed up. "Now wait one minute. I never said I wished for that. This is so not what I meant. And you know it."

The genie flopped back, floating in midair with the look of an offended teenager. He was careful to keep in Dean's line of sight though. _"Oh good, here we go. On with the bitching and the whining. I did you a favor, you ungrateful little bastard."_

"A favor? A favor!" Dean roared. "Undo it now."

The genie barely blinked. _"No."_

"NO? What do you mean, no?"

 _"I mean I won't. Christ, were you dropped on your head as a child?"_

Dean reached for the knife he always kept in his back pocket, but he'd left the one dipped in lamb's blood on his desk. Sam laid a restraining hand on his arm and brought Dean's attention to him. _"Why not?"_ Sam wanted to know.

The genie shrugged. _"I exerted good magic on that wish. The whelp should learn to appreciate what he's given."_

"It wasn't a wish! I never said 'I wish,' I didn't ask you to do it. I certainly didn't say anything about not being able to hear. However you contorted that conversation into a wish probably goes against some cosmic law. So, for the last time. Fix this."

 _"Nope,"_ he said sitting up.

Dean lunged for him, dropping the bottle in his desire to choke the life out of the man in front of him. Before his hands could settle satisfyingly around the genie's throat, he was gone, vanishing in blue wisps of smoke into the bottle. The bottle Sam now held. From the looks of things, Sam dove for it the minute Dean moved, catching it just before it hit the ground. Which, yeah, alright, they probably didn't want the bottle to break, but still.

Dean whirled before his brother could say anything and stormed down the hall, not in the mood for a lecture. He stomped into his bedroom and slammed the door shut. He just couldn't deal with this shit right that moment. Instead he flung himself face down on the bed with a groan.

Stupid genies. Stupid wishes. Stupid Abaddon for massacring the stupid Men of Letters before they could deal with the stupid annoying shit living in their slightly less stupid bunker.

Right now, Dean would enjoy kicking all their asses.

In fact, if he didn't get to be violent and soon, he was going to implode. He shoved himself up off his bed, grabbed his gun from under his pillow, and stalked down to the shooting range in the basement. He took just enough time to set up a target before taking his position across the room and firing a round. It was subtly less satisfying knowing the wall was reinforced, his target was paper, and he couldn't actually hear the tap-tapping of the shots. But he was satisfied watching the bullets tear holes in the paper and the recoil of the gun in his hand felt powerful and threatening.

He knew vaguely when Sam appeared in the doorway. He didn't bother to look up. Sam wisely stayed out of the line of fire until he'd unloaded his gun. He reached to reload, but found Sam's hand covering his. He snarled at Sam and the hand retreated. He reloaded with harsh, jerking movements and continued to fire shot after shot, neatly clustering together on the target's head. He repeated the process twice more before he felt calm enough to deal with anything. When he turned he found Sam sitting against the wall, chin on his knees, watching silently like he had when he was twelve and Dad had made him watch Dean to learn proper technique. This time, instead of the simmering resentment, he was more relaxed, just keeping Dean company.

"What do you want, Sam," Dean demanded.

Sam glanced up at him and shrugged. _"Just watching. Hadn't seen you just shoot in ages. Sorta scary how good you are."_ He offered up a lopsided grin, as if to say that Dean knew how it was, but Dean didn't.

 _"You know it's only temporary right? We'll figure out how to fix this."_

"Yeah? And what am I supposed to do in the mean time? Just sit on my ass?"

 _"Look, he said it was some sort of magic, which means there'll be some way to reverse it. It's just a matter of finding his weak spot so he'll do what we want."_

"Yeah. We'll see."


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't like talking when he couldn't hear. He was nine types of sure he sounded funny and it was hard to know if he was modulating his voice right. Sometimes he felt like he was screaming but Sam said he was barely loud enough to be heard. Other times, he ended up getting louder and louder, still expecting to hear himself over the ringing silence in his ears.

He would have given up talking completely if it hadn't been a necessity. There was just too much going on, between research and Sam's emo crap and even just normal stuff to constantly be passing notes back and forth. He could read lips thanks to the John Winchester school of survival and other random things. So he kept talking and wondered if it would ever not be weird to not hear himself.

On the second day, as he stared morosely at the laptop he'd been using to research genies, he glanced up at Sam and said, "Maybe I should just wish for my hearing back. That would count and he'd have to do it, right?" He'd said it offhandedly, but was desperate to try something.

Sam shook his head. _"We don't know how that works. Do you really want to try it without knowing how he operates? What if he screws something up even worse?"_

And that was a fair point. Dean kind of hated him for it. 

Weird as it was, they settled into a routine. Dean kept forgetting that he couldn't hear. Not that he could ever stop being amazed that he was wrapped in silence. It was in his daily routines and habits. He had picked up the phone to call for carryout. He held the phone up to his ear before he realized what he'd done. He'd flipped the radio on in his bedroom and immediately flipped it off again. There were a hundred little things he had to find work arounds for, especially solutions that didn't involve going to Sam every five minutes.

Sam didn't seem to care. He just took everything and rolled with it. He didn't let Dean sink into self-pity either. Any time it looked like he might be spinning his wheels, Sam would be there with a question, or a problem, or another book to look through. By the time Sam broached the topic of the case they were supposed to be doing, Dean was ready to murder his eternally perky brother. If he couldn't brood or get roaring drunk, he needed to be out doing something.

Sam slid a note across the table one morning as he settled across from Dean with his breakfast.

 _I'm going to call Mark and hand off the Haxtun case. Last I heard, he and his cronies were in Idaho. Should be able to pick it up and take it off our plate while we work on this._

Dean scanned it and scowled. Their research wasn't going anywhere. He was just as stone deaf today as he'd been the last three days. He was irritated and bored and more than a little ready to punch something.

He glanced up at Sam who was shoveling what looked to be the blackened remains of scrambled eggs into his face. Well, that explained why it smelled like something was burning. Instead of arguing about the case, he found himself asking, "Dude, what are you eating?"

Sam shrugged, avoiding eye contact.

"From now on, stick with sandwiches. Geeze. It's not that hard, man. You'd think you threw all your food into and incinerator."

Sam stuck his tongue out at him, but continued to eat his charred meal. There was a reason Sam still ate cereal for breakfast.

Before Sam could say anything else, Dean said, "Let's take the Haxtun case."

Sam paused, fork halfway to his mouth and frowned. " _Are you sure that's a good idea?"_

"It's an awesome idea."

" _But what about…"_

"I need a break. Now. Let's go."

 _"But –"_

Dean rose and closed the book he'd been reading. "I'm doing this. End of discussion. Are you coming or what?" Without waiting for Sam to answer, he turned and went to go pack a bag. Ten minutes later, Sam was waiting for him, leaning against his car. As Dean threw his bag in the trunk and moved to climb into the driver's seat, he caught Sam talking to him out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know what he'd actually said, but he could make a fair guess.

"I'm driving. If you don't like it, then you can walk. I'm deaf, not blind."

Sam settled into the passenger side of the car, frown entrenched on his face. To his credit, he didn't try to dissuade Dean anymore. Dean felt his heart drop as the Impala shivered to life under him without her distinctive growl. Sam grimaced and flick the volume of the music down. Dean couldn't for the life of him remember what was in the player, but he cranked it, mildly surprised when the thumping base line rumbling under his feet and he could feel his jeans vibrating against his leg. Sam's pained bitch face was worth the second swooping in his stomach when he realized he could turned the volume up as loud as it would go and he still would not know which tape was playing.

He grinned at Sam instead, thumping his head to the beat and ignoring Sam's pleas. He cranked it another notch and Sam's hands went to his ears. He glared at Dean. Dean relented.

"Keep your hair on Samantha. It's just a little music," but he did let the volume drop to a more normal level, missing the thumping nearly as soon as it was gone. This was going to be a long drive.

A half hour later Dean wished he'd let Sam win the driving argument. His hands were starting to ache from the tight grip on the wheel and his neck was stiff from the tension sitting right between his shoulders. He'd hoped he would relax when he got pavement flying under him, but there was a lot of traffic and every time he passed a car or changed lanes he felt a little tenser. There were other cars everywhere and he kept seeing the motion from the corner of his eye. It felt like he was trying to look in several directions at once. And he couldn't talk to Sam or rock out. He was in his own personal bubble and it was suffocating.

Finally, he'd had enough. He needed coffee. He pulled off maybe an hour into their drive at a little café aptly named Caffeine. He waited long enough for Sam to climb out of the car before making his way across the street to the little, green trimmed building.

When he walked in, the first thing he noticed was that there was motion everywhere. People talking and shifting in their seats. Staff wiping tables down. A couple dancing in the corner. It was nearly overwhelming. Dean felt distracted and small, like the walls were closing in, but he tried to power through the feeling. Everything was going to be fine. At the same time, he felt totally and absolutely alone. There were probably twenty people all crammed into the small space, and it was like he was on the other side of a glass barrier. He could look at them but they were separate.

Sam made his way up to the counter. Dean followed, less sure of himself in the organized chaos of the little coffee shop. The girl behind the counter was young, maybe twenty and blond. She was smacking gum in a way that Dean thought would have been annoying even if he hadn't been trying to read her lips. He found that here, in a public place where the person he was reading wasn't Sam, it was a lot harder than it had been in the bunker where it was quiet and still and Dean could concentrate.

The girl said something and Sam nudged him so Dean assumed he'd been asked what he wanted. "Just a coffee, strongest thing you've got."

She gave him an odd look and Sam said something else. She smiled sadly at him but nodded. Sam paid and they made their way towards an empty table in the back.

Before they could reach their destination, Sam yanked him sideways just as his left arm was doused in hot liquid. He cussed and jumped away, yanking his over shirt off and taking stock of the damage to his pants. He'd just determined he'd need to run out to the car and grab a change of jeans when he found himself nose to nose with another man.

The man had leaned in, making up for their difference in heights by letting his bulk occupy Dean's personal space. He was yelling, starting to go red in the face. Dean jerked back a step.

"What the fuck, man?"

The man turned absolutely livid and started waving his arms, gesturing to his coffee and his drenched button down shirt. He made a jabbing motion towards Dean, who slapped his hand away and tried to shove him back to get a little space between them.

The crowd in the café by that point had all turned to stare at Dean. He could feel their eyes on him. The man was yelling and back in his space. There wasn't enough air in here. The man leaned in and Dean punched him. He ran for the door. If he didn't get out soon he was going to run out of oxygen. The room felt too small, too tight. He needed out, right then.

He made it out the front door and around to the side of the building where he collapsed against the bricks, entirely sure that he wouldn't be able to stand on his own. He let his head fall back, eyes closed, as he drug air into his lungs and tried to get the world to stop tunneling.

A few minutes later, a shadow fell across him and he peaked to find Sam standing a few feet away, coffee in hand. He held out a cup and Dean took it. He gulped down the coffee, barely registering the burning liquid.

Finally, when he felt he could talk without his voice cracking, Dean asked, "Did the guy call the cops?"

He turned to face Sam so he'd be easier to read. Sam shook his head but didn't elaborate. "Why not?"

Sam shifted his weight and looked out into the parking lot beside them. "Sam?"

 _"I might have scared him a bit."_

"What did you do?"

Sam grinned up at him, sheepishly. _"I kind of lost my temper."_

"You didn't beat the guy up, did you?"

 _"Nah, just yelled a bit. I think I just surprised him when I got in his face. Sometimes I forget how tall I am."_

Dean snorted. Sam, all six-foot four of him, could cut quite the imposing figure when he wanted to. It had saved them from a couple of bar fights before.

 _"You all right?"_

Dean grimaced. "Course I am. Just peachy."

Sam took another sip of his coffee, but didn't respond. They stood for another moment lost in their thoughts before Dean pushed off from the wall. "Come on," he said. "Let's blow this town." He made his way to the car, fishing his keys out of his pocket. As they reached the Impala, he tossed the keys to Sam. "Your turn. I'm catching some shut eye before we get there."

Sam opened his mouth to say something – to bitch in all likelihood, but Dean settled into the seat and closed his eyes, resolutely blocking out anything he might have said. He felt the car start and then it lurched forward as Sam pulled into traffic.

He ought to feel more disconcerted by the feeling of the car moving without being able to hear the whooshing of other cars or see where they were going, but he found it oddly relaxing. Without the distraction of Sam's off-key humming or other cars, he felt himself relax back into the seat, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. He was dozing in under ten minutes. 

They arrived in Haxtun just over four hours later. Between the traffic and the construction, they'd had to do the same speed as everyone else. Even Sam was looking harried as they climbed out of the car in front of the local hotel.

The front desk was manned by a little woman wrapped up in a shawl who smiled all warm cookies and doting at Sam. Dean watched from the car as Sam turned into a little boy, dimples and everything, for the woman. Sam jerked his head in Dean's direction and the woman looked over at him. She had to have been at least sixty. She smiled that same warm smile at him and Dean couldn't help himself, he smiled back. He gave a little wave and saw her laugh, turning back to Sam.

Dean finished pulling their bags from the car and met Sam on the sidewalk, tossing him his duffel. _"Got us a room upstairs. Place is pretty empty right now."_

Dean nodded and followed Sam back in and up an old staircase to the very end of the hall. The room had a window looking out over a stream and frilly white curtains. They dumped their bags on the beds and Dean sank down to sit on his.

"So, how do you want to do this?" Dean asked. Sam had done all the research. He didn't know much about the case beyond the fact that they had one pissed off spirit.

 _"Figured we could go check it out and ask around this afternoon. Obit I found mentioned a burial, so it's probably just a salt and burn."_

"Know where this guy's buried?"

 _"Only one cemetery in town."_ Sam shrugged. _"Can't be that hard to find. I'll pull their records tonight."_

He pulled his laptop out of his bag and set it on the table in the corner of the room, taking a moment to plug it into the wall to charge. _"Let's go find something to eat. I'm starving."_

Dean hesitated. The last thing he wanted was a repeat of earlier at the café. "Go on ahead. I'm good. Just going to grab a shower."

Sam crossed his arms. _"Dean, you barely ate breakfast and we didn't stop for lunch. I can hear your stomach from here. There was a diner down the road. We can get it to go if you want and go scope out the building."_

And dammit, Dean could feel his stomach chewing on itself, partly because he was hungry and partly because this whole affair was hard. He'd never anticipated how difficult it would be to navigate even the little things when he couldn't hear. He was beginning to think he'd have been better off sticking to the bunker till they fixed this.

 _"It'll be fine. What are you afraid of?"_

Dean scowled. "Being seen in public with you." He scooped up his jacket from where he'd tossed it over a chair. "Fine, let's go. Don't want you fainting on me."

Dean knew Sam was pushing his buttons because he wanted Dean to keep going. Sam was nothing if not persistent. He was surprised that his brother hadn't tried to tip-toe around the issue. That was something of a coping mechanism for him, tread softly until he'd figured out exactly what would set Dean off, then act accordingly. Perhaps it was the fact that Sam had every confidence that they would figure out how to make the genie reverse the wish or maybe he was just trying to prove to Dean that Dean wasn't as broken as he felt.

Manly or not, Dean almost ran when they reached the diner. He could feel a second panic coming on. Sam nudged him. _"Do you want to wait here? I can get something to go."_

Dean glanced in the window. There were only two other patrons inside. One at the bar in the back and one in a booth by a front window. The woman at the register was in her thirties and looked bored to death. He could do this.

He pushed past Sam and walked through the door. The waitress looked up, but let them settle into a booth before she came over with menus. This lady was much easier to read than the one in the café and seemed less excitable.

 _"Hi, Welcome to Jerry's. My name is Carla and I'll be your waitress today. Can I get you something to drink?"_

Sam smiled at her and rattled off his drink order. She turned to Dean and he gave her his best grin. "Just a coffee, sweetheart."

She nodded jotted it down on the ticket, and left. She returned with a glass of water for Sam and Dean's coffee and left again before they could blink. Dean took a moment to scan the menu. The burger selection was less than phenomenal, but they boasted having the best lasagna in the county three years running. He'd be the judge of that.

When Carla returned, she paused at their table. _"You boys know what you want yet?"_

Sam nodded. Dean missed what he ordered as he held up the menu for her to take. When she turned to Dean, he said, "Says here you've got the best lasagna in the county. Is it really that good?"

She finally cracked a smile. _"Dale's lasagna is to die for. It's a secret family recipe. He won't tell anyone how to make it."_

"How could I resist?"

He handed the menu back and she disappeared again. Dean looked up to find Sam smiling at him. "What?"

Sam shook his head. _"So, Daniel Morse owned All That Glitters. The shop was sold to a developer who was buying up land to put in a strip mall. When they went in to survey the site, technicians claimed to hear voices in the walls and flickering lights. Their equipment reportedly went dead before they could do much."_

Sam was right, the case seemed pretty cut and dry. They talked to a few locals, but all anyone would say was that Morse had died and his children hadn't been too broken up over it. When they broke into the old building, now an empty shell with peeling paint and cracks in the walls, they barely had to enter before the EMF went off. The ceiling lights overhead started to flicker as they got further in, but they never actually saw Morse. As far as Dean was concerned, it was all the proof they needed.

Which is why they went grave digging at midnight. Or rather, Dean was doing most of the digging. He'd appointed Sam the lookout because, recovered or not, he was still looking pale and the last thing he needed was for the kid to get sick again. Plus digging would work off some of the pent up energy he'd had for the last few days.

Unfortunately, digging also meant was unprepared for the cold hands that tightened around his biceps as he broke through the lid of the coffin. He had a moment to register the burning cold before he was sailing through the air. He landed hard against the base of a tombstone, weight crashing onto his wrist and he felt it give with a gut wrenching twist that nearly made him vomit. He struggled to sit up, trying to clear the pain induced fog that had settled around him. He had to find the ghost. Or Sam.

The spirit hadn't gone far. It was on him in a second, gripping his ankle in an iron grasp. Dean kicked out, but didn't his foot went straight through the spirit. The ghost started pulling him along the ground until he was clear of the other graves, then with one huge motion, swung him like a club and sent him airborne again. He crashed into an old oak tree, and his vision blacked out. He tried to blink away the darkness, but everything felt so heavy.

There was a rush of heat and then nothing but the empty floating of unconsciousness.

He came to again somewhere stringent. He was comfortable and floating nicely in a haze of half formed thoughts. Until he remembered that he'd been flung into a tree. He should be on the ground in the cemetery.

He pried his eyes open and was momentarily confused when white ceiling tiles met his gaze. Sam appeared in his direct line of vision, eyes creased with tight worry lines. Hospital then. Sam was speaking but he kept going in and out of focus, so Dean didn't worry too much about it. He let his eyes drift close and fell back into sleep.

The next time he woke he was annoyingly lucid. His back ached. His shoulder ached. His head was throbbing where it had met the tree. All of which paled in comparison to the lancing pain in his wrist.

He was also alone. There was a chair pulled up next to his bed and Sam's jacket was draped across the back, but Sam wasn't in the room. It was midafternoon, judging by the light coming in his window. The door to his room was cracked, but not enough to distinguish anything in the hallway. Dean tried to shift so that he was sitting up, but between his wrist and his head, he had to bite back a curse and collapsed back onto his pillow.

He must have made some sort of noise because Sam's head poked around the door. Seeing Dean awake, he smiled and came into the room, followed by a doctor in a white coat.

 _"Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Bout time you got up."_

"Don't be jealous of my gorgeous looks, bitch," Dean said, noticing for the first time that his throat might just be lined with sandpaper. Sam winced in sympathy. He grabbed a cup off the nightstand and filled it with water.

"What happened," Dean asked after he felt a bit less parched.

 _"You don't remember?"_ Sam's expression tightened in warning. Dean had no clue what their cover story was, so he shook his head.

 _"You were on your bike. You hit a hole and went flying. Never been so scared in my life. You tried to take out a tree on the way down. The tree didn't feel a thing."_

"Oh," Dean said. "Did it look cool, at least?"

Sam punched him in the arm. Maybe he really had worried Sam. "So what's the damage?"

Sam nodded towards the doctor. _"He says you shattered your wrist. Broken in five places."_ He waved his hand around, as if to emphasize the number. _"They had to do surgery to set everything in place again. You're going to be stuck in that thing for a couple of months," /i_ he said. He gestured towards the heavily casted arm. _i "You're lucky it didn't require any hardware to set."_

"That's me, one lucky bastard." Dean made eye contact with Sam. He had to know if it was done. Had Sam gotten the ghost, or had he rushed Dean to the hospital? Sam gave a small nod before his eyes flicked to the doctor.

Dean glanced over at him to find the doctor looking at him expectantly. Dean glanced back at Sam who frowned. _"Say that again doc. My brother can't hear and he wasn't looking at you."_

The doctor looked startled for a second before he straightened up. He made a quick set of gestures, eyebrows quirked in question. Dean just stared at him, mouth agape. "What?"

He glanced back at Sam, who was frowning. _"Sorry, we don't sign. It's a fairly recent thing. Dean can read lips, though. Just speak clearly and slow down a little."_

Dean turned back to the doctor who was already snapping at Sam. _"Why didn't you tell us about this? It could have –"_

"Whoa," Dean snapped. "Hold it right there. First of all _I_ am sitting in the room. Right between you as a matter of fact. Second of all, what difference would it make? You were setting my arm, not performing brain surgery."

The doctor visibly checked himself. He turned to Dean. _"I apologize. We take certain precautions for patients who have different communication needs. It is always important to tell your doctor things like this, even if they seem unimportant."_

Dean nodded, biting his lip. Laughing wouldn't help the situation. "Okay, then. Sammy, you heard the man. Next time we take an ER trip, tell them I can't hear up front." Sam rolled his eyes but nodded. "So what's the program, here?"

 _"You'll be in that cast for six weeks. After that, we'll move you over to a brace and start you on some physical therapies to strengthen your wrist and make sure you don't accidentally hurt yourself again once it's healed. For now, you need to use it as little as possible. Keep it in a sling as much as you can. No lifting, no writing, no driving. If you had any thoughts of learning to sign, use the other hand even once you've been cleared for the brace. Try not to twist that arm and be careful not to knock it into things. It's going to be sore for a week or so, but the worst of the discomfort should ease by then. We'll want to see you again in a couple of weeks just to make sure everything is healing up the way it should."_

"Awesome. When can I leave?"

 _"We've been monitoring your concussion. I'd like you to stay overnight, but there's no reason you couldn't be released tomorrow morning."_

"Just for the concussion?"

The doctor nodded. "Then I'm ready now. Let's get this show on the road."

 _"Mr. Gordon, I have to advise against that. You took a serious blow to the head. The fact that you can't remember what happened proves it was fairly serious. I would strongly recommend you stay here."_

"Look, I appreciate the concern, but it's not my first rodeo. I'm coming up on the 24 hour mark. I'm conscious, I'm lucid, and aside from a throbbing knot where my head met the tree, I'm fine. Sam knows what to watch for. If I start slurring or convulsing, you'll be the first to know."

The doctor looked over at Sam, who nodded. Finally he looked back to Dean. _"Fine. I'll agree to release you on one condition."_

"What's that?"

 _"I'm going to step down the hall to get the paperwork. If you're dressed and ready to go without your cousin's help, in ten minutes, I'll gladly sign the paperwork."_

"Uh, doc? I don't know if you noticed, but I've got a giant cast on my arm. Not sure I can work shoelaces one-handed yet, much less buttons." And as much as it sucked, he knew he couldn't yet. He was well experienced with just how much he could do in a cast. What's more, with only the tips of his fingers sticking out, he'd be lucky to zip up his jeans. This was going to suck.

 _"Oh, cast related help is fine. But you better get up and walk around and see if you're still itching to leave."_

"Thanks, doc. See you in ten."

The doctor blinked at him, but turned to leave. Dean turned to Sam. "Alright, where'd you stash my pants?"

Ten minutes later found Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, sore and exhausted, but definitely dressed and ready to go. He was teasing Sam mercilessly for disheveled state of his hair when the doctor walked in. He seemed surprised by the sight, but sighed and handed over the forms for Dean to sign. Another ten minutes and Dean was sitting in Baby ready to put this whole hunt behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

"Look man, I can't even get him to come out of his bottle. What am I supposed to do?"

They had been having this argument for the last twenty minutes. Dean was sick of it. He'd been trying to rub that bottle every way he could, but the ornery bastard wouldn't show. Plus, with the cast on his right arm, he was pretty much useless. Everything seemed insurmountable and he just wanted to curl up in ball with a bottle of Jack and be left alone for a day.

Sam dropped a book down on the table in front of Dean. _"Research,"_ he said with a grin. Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Sam frowned and pulled his phone out of his pocket. Dean watched for a second but couldn't tell what was being said with the phone obscuring half Sam's face. Instead he braced himself and flipped open the book skimming the index for anything remotely promising. A cloud of dust flew into the air as he flipped pages and he held back a sneeze.

It was three more days of research before Sam found something. In that time, he'd been trying to take care of Dean at the same time. Dean felt a little guilty that Sam was pulling double duty, but he couldn't do anything about it, even if he wanted to. And he wanted to.

In the short time they'd been home, Sam had somehow managed to burn or spoil just about everything he'd tried to cook and flooded the bathroom when he tried to clean it, somehow having wedged a wash cloth in the drain. He'd turned both their underwear bright pink, although the kid claims he just didn't see the red sock he'd found mixed in with the load. He'd nearly caught the vacuum on fire when he sucked up the corner of the rug in the library. Dean was tired and he wasn't even the one doing the cleaning. He was just disaster control.

For now, he'd gotten Sam to settle at the table with him, researching, which was really a break for Dean who didn't have to worry what might be about to go wrong for ten minutes.

Sam waived at Dean from his spot across the table. Dean's head snapped up from the page he was reading for the third time. He took in the eager expression on Sam's face. "Find something?"

Sam nodded. He flipped the book around, pointing to a passage.

 _The weaker classes of djinn, or jinn, can be captured and controlled by strong sorcerers with enough power to bind them. Most are bound to physical objects, such as bottles or other containers which provided a space to banish the jinn to when not needed. This practice gave rise to the popular myth of the genie in a bottle or lamp, because they were often ordinary household objects. Most jinn are subject to serve whoever holds the object to which they have been bound. To earn a jinn's servitude is a mixed blessing. They can be powerful forces, but they are constantly striving against the sorcery. While they can only use their powers as directed or allowed by their master, they relish in twisting meanings. Should a jinn manage to kill or cause the death of his current master within the limits of his directions, the binding would be broken and he would be freed, making them tricky to deal with. For this reason, bound jinn are rarely kept for long._

Dean blinked. He pushed the book back towards Sam. "Does it mention any way to control them, or how their magic works?"

Sam shrugged. _"I haven't gotten that far."_

Dean had just settled back into his own reading when Sam jumped to his feet, knocking his notes to the floor and startling Dean who barely had time to glance up before Sam was running towards the kitchen. Dean saw a wisp of grey smoke and the scent of something burning flooded into the room. Dean ran after Sam, squinting in the smoke. Sam was flinging open a window and dowsing a pan in water from the sink. On the stove top, flames still licked the eye of the burner. Dean grabbed up one of the boxes of baking powder he'd stashed in the kitchen and, somewhat awkwardly with his left hand, threw it over the burner, suffocating the flames.

Dean grabbed Sam by the collar and hauled him out before he could inhale too much smoke. They beat a hasty exit and left the door open as they sat on the front steps waiting for the central ventilation to clear the air a little.

Finally, when Dean had managed to stop coughing, he turned to Sam. "What the fuck were you making?"

Sam made a face. _"Meatloaf."_

Dean stared at him. "Meatloaf?"

 _"Yeah."_

"Meatloaf goes in the oven Sam, not on the burner. How the hell did you start a grease fire?"

Sam scowled. _"I know that. I was trying to cook the onions just a bit. They are nasty when they're still crunchy at the end."_

Dean stared at him. "Dude, you've been reading with me for almost half an hour."

Sam nodded miserably.

Dean couldn't help himself. He roared with laughter. Sam had nearly burned down the bunker with onions and now his little brother was sitting next to him, covered in soot, with dark streaks through his hair. He was aware Sam was bitching at him, but it only made him laugh harder.

As Dean got himself under control, he found that even Sam was smiling a little. "You're hopeless," He said and started chuckling again.

 _"I just… I'm sorry, Dean."_

Still chuckling, Dean nudged him, careful not to catch his bandaged hand in the motion. "What for? They were just onions. But you get to clean up that mess."

Sam shook his head. _"No, I mean for everything."_

"What are you talking about?"

 _"I've been trying to help this week, but it seems like I keep messing it all up. I'm sorry about the fire and the burnt toast and the flooded bathroom and the pink underwear and –"_

Dean smiled. "Sam, stop. It's fine. I always knew you were helpless without me. Maybe we should do life skills 101 or something."

 _"I'm serious. I never realized how much you do around here. I'm sorry if I took it for granted."_

"Dude. Will you relax? It's just laundry and cooking. You too can master these fine arts. We might make you into a housewife, yet. How you survived in college is beyond me." Because Dean knew the other times didn't count. Sam had gone on autopilot all the other times Dean had not been around and those never ended well.

Sam looked away. _"We had a cafeteria and, well, once Jess and I moved in together, I fixed things and kept her computer running. She washed clothes and cooked dinner. It was a good trade."_

"Aha! So you never actually had to fend for yourself."

 _"Hey! I've managed my own laundry since I was ten."_

Dean just raised his eyebrow. Sam frowned. _"The pink underwear was an accident. I've done laundry plenty of times. Why you have red socks, is the better question. Besides, culinary disaster or not, I'm not the one who tried to use ketchup for pizza sauce."_

Dean grinned. "What? They're both tomatoes. And don't lie. You loved it." In his own defense, he had been twelve and they'd been running out of food. He'd had to improvise.

 _"It was sweet."_ He wrinkled his nose at the thought. _"And runny."_

"And we had it for dinner three nights that month because you asked for it."

Sam shuddered a little. "Seriously, though," Dean said. "From here on, you're not allowed to use the kitchen by yourself unless you're making a sandwich. Got it?"

 _"But-"_

"Don't worry, Sam. I'll teach you to cook. You might even earn your stove privileges back by the time you're 35."

 _"You're such a jerk."_

"I know. But we'll start with something fun. We'll make pizza, since you brought it up."

Dean sat in the high chair at the kitchen island as Sam puttered around gathering ingredients for the pizza sauce. The crust was in the oven and Dean was thoroughly enjoying the process. He got to kick back and supervise. For once, they had found something both of them liked. Sam was a little more cautious. He didn't add anything Dean didn't say to or deviate from directions at all. Of course that could be because he was trying to be on his best behavior while in Dean's kitchen. It was hard to tell, but Dean would bet Sam would always be a cautious cook.

Dean was an experimenter. Once he knew the basics of something, he went to town.

With the ingredients lined up on the counter, Dean came to look over Sam's shoulder. "Okay, now, you'll need the sauce pot. Use the burner that didn't get covered in baking soda. We'll have to clean that up later."

Sam obediently set the pot on the eye and started the burner. "Mediumish, heat. You don't want to scorch tomatoes. Trust me."

Sam turned the heat down. Dean handed him a can of tomato paste. Normally, he'd like to use real tomatoes, but they were fresh out. He'd chopped the last one for burgers a week ago. Instead, he showed Sam how to open both sides and use the can lids to scrape the inside almost clean. Under Dean's watchful eye, Sam added enough water to make a sauce, then added spices to the mix. The result was a steaming pot of deliciousness. It had been a long time since Dean could teach Sam anything and it was nice. "Stir that every few minutes so it doesn't stick to the bottom. Crust should be done in a minute."

Dean took his seat again and Sam settled across from him. _i "We should have done this before."_

"See, cooking's not so hard. You just got to remember to take your time."

Sam smiled. _"Right, Dean Winchester, chef extraordinaire. Next thing I know you'll have your own cooking show."_

"Nah. I never look good in an apron."

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. He reached back across the kitchen to give the sauce a swirl.

"Let's play a game," Dean said. "While we wait."

 _"What do you want to play?"_

"I don't care. Cards or checkers or something."

Sam got up and wandered into the next room, coming back with a deck of cards. He'd shuffled them and dealt out a hand of poker which Dean was trying to manage one-handedly when Sam stood. _"Crust's done."_

Dean folded his cards down and watched as Sam pulled the bread from the oven. It was just starting to brown. Perfect.

"Grab the cheese and pepperoni from the fridge. Let's deck this thing out."

Sam returned with the necessary toppings and together they assembled the pizza. Another three rounds of poker and it was done. As they were cutting their handiwork, Dean looked over at Sam. "See how nothing caught fire? That's how you're supposed to cook."

Sam punched him in the arm, but smiled at him. They took their pizza and settled in to watch a bad horror movie, which Dean entertained himself through by making up dialogue, ignoring the closed captioning entirely.

The next day they got to work following the lead in the book Sam had found. It didn't actually have any suggestions for controlling a jinn but it referenced another book and gave them a clue where to look. Throughout, Sam kept thorough notes about everything they found or referenced. Dean suspected that the file on djinn would be thoroughly updated when this was all over.

Sometime around seven that evening Dean struck gold. "Yahtzee!"

Sam focused on Dean motioning for him to continue.

 _"The jinn of legend could rarely be consistently controlled, but by most accounts, any of their magics still in effect ceased at the time of their death._

"It goes on to list a couple of cases, but it's pretty vague."

Dean looked up at Sam, excitement settling in the pit of his stomach. "I think we found it!"

Sam frowned. _"Does it say how to make him come out? We can't just break the bottle. That'll release him for good."_

Dean skimmed a little down the page. " _The jinn must obey the call of its master, be he sorcerer or man. Contrary to popular myth, rubbing the object in which the jinn resides does_ [A1] _not summon him. He must be either commanded or coaxed out._

"They obviously never met my genie," he said, staring at the page in disgust.

Sam waived to get his attention. _"Maybe not…What if it requires a direct order. What if you have to explicitly command him to show? It's possible that he's loop holing the summons. He does it to everything else."_

Dean considered that option. It was possible. When he'd appeared before, it was after Dean spoke to him, although recently that had failed to work. It was worth a try. "Okay, I'm up for it. Ready to kill us a genie?"

 _"Maybe we should try talking to him first,"_ Sam said, pulling a face. _"If he agrees to reverse whatever magic he's done, we could always just lock him up."_

"Sure," Dean shrugged. "We can try, but it didn't work so well last time. I think we should be prepared for the possibility."

Sam nodded. _"How do you want to do this?"_

A half hour later, they were all set up. Sam was hiding around the corner in the next room in case everything went south. Dean had his silver knife, coated in fresh lamb's blood, in his hand. He placed the bottle in the very center of the table and stepped back. Sam thought all they had to do was say in no uncertain terms that they were summoning the genie. Dean took a breath.

"Jinn, I summon you. Appear before me, now."

A long pause followed his pronouncement and Dean felt more than a little silly. No one talked like that. Only over the top characters in old movies. Finally, blue smoke began pouring out of the bottle. It took only a second before the sagging little man was standing in front of him.

 _"What?"_ He snapped. _"You finally grow a fucking backbone and decide on another wish?"_

"No," Dean said calmly.

 _"So you just called to complain some more? You've got to be shitting me. I don't have to sit through this."_

"Actually, you do," Dean said.

 _"How do you figure that?"_

"Because I summoned you and I have not dismissed you."

 _"Ooh, little boy wants to play rough. Go ahead. Take control. It makes me go all tingly."_

Dean ignored the blabbering. It was just like dealing with a Sam tantrum. He had done that a thousand times. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. "It's time you and I had a little chat."

 _"And what, you think you've got the power to make me listen?"_

Dean shrugged. "I don't really care. See, here's the thing. You're bound to serve whoever holds that bottle. Right now that's me. You can deny it all you want. Hell, you can be whatever kind of bastard you like, but I've got all the power I need."

The genie scowled at him. _"Alright. What do you want?"_

"Nuh-uh," Dean said, shaking his head. "No more underhanded wishes."

 _"Or what?"_

Dean flicked his blade so that lamb's blood flew off the tip to splatter onto the jinn's cheek. He hissed and wiped it off on his vest. _"Fine. I'm listening."_

"How many "wishes" have you granted me – with or without my consent? I command you to tell me the truth."

The genie scowled. He clamped his mouth closed and seemed to be fighting to not answer. He mumbled, lips barely moving.

Dean narrowed his eyes and flicked the blade again, noting with satisfaction that the genie stiffened at the contact. "Once again. How many?"

 _"Three, alright, you fucker? Three."_

"And what were they, because I certainly don't remember making any actual wishes or requests."

The genie's expression twisted into a grimace, but he looked Dean right in the eye. _"You wanted peace and quiet, you wanted an easy hunt and time to yourself with your brother, and you wanted to be the one being cared for. All though those last two were pretty much a two-fer."_

"How did you grant those last two?"

 _"Really? You're really that much of a moron? How often do cases just fall into your lap then go so wrong you get injured enough you can't fend for yourself. Besides, he's been helping you since you went deaf. Like a mother hen."_

Dean opened his mouth to snap. He wanted to tell the genie to fuck off, but the instant he started to speak, he realized that pretty much summed up most of their hunts. "Actually, more often than you'd think."

The genie stared at Dean. _"Seriously, how did you two ever make it to adulthood?"_

"Not the point here."

 _"Come on, tell me you didn't enjoy that little domestic scene with that giant you call a brother. You played poker and baked together. I was waiting for you to start braiding each other's hair."_

"Okay, here's question number two. Again, I command you to answer honestly. Can you end whatever magic is currently affecting me?"

The genie grit his teeth, but said, _"Yes."_

"Good. Then, jinn. I command you. Undo the magic you used on me."

But the genie grinned, predatorily. _"Oh, but I've told you. I can't mess with time."_

"I'm not asking you to. I didn't say to rewrite history. It's time to clean up your mess. Fix my hearing. Heal my wrist, since that is your fault too. Put everything you altered to rights, just as it was before. No altering time. No altering memories. Just simple, physical fixes. You can clean up the kitchen while you're at it too."

The genie snarled at Dean but raised his hands to clap. Before he could, Dean said, "I should warn you, I wanted to kill you. Sam thought you deserved the chance to make things right. Doesn't mean I won't, just means I'm giving you the chance to prove me wrong. I will kill you if you make a wrong move."

The genie's shoulders dropped. Rage burned in his eyes and Dean, just for a second, thought he could almost grasp what kind of power had been shoved into that bottle for centuries. He knew if the genie ever got free, he was a dead man. But for now, the thing was captured, more or less. The genie clapped twice and watched him with hatred.

"Is it done?" Dean asked. He gasped when he realized he could hear his own voice again. "And my arm? Is that healed as well?"

"Yes. For fuck's sake, yes. It's all back to the way it was. More or less. I can heal the break, but it still happened. I can accelerate healing, but it'll still be sore or weaker than the other one until you rebuild the strength in it."

Dean narrowed his eyes. That sounded suspiciously like bull, but as he would be much further along than he was to start with, he let it stand. He knew it was probably just the genie's way of getting in a last dig.

"Jinn, I have one more question. What is your name?"

The genie paused, looking mildly surprised. "My name?"

"Yeah. Since all this started, we've just been calling you the genie – or well, most of the time."

"You could not pronounce my true name. I have earned many through the years. I was fond of Yatahaddath Min Wajhi. You may call me Haddath."

"I assume there's a story behind that?" Dean said, mildly curious now that things were on more equal footing between them.

The genie smiled at him. "Yes," he said. "A very good one."

Dean snorted. "Fair enough. Well, Haddath, I would love to say it's been a pleasure, but it really hasn't. Glad I didn't have to kill you."

"It's been an absolute fucking nightmare," the genie corrected. "Seriously, I'll have horrific dreams of this whole ordeal."

Dean nodded congenially. "Jinn, be gone. I banish you to your bottle."

"Fuck you," he said before flipping Dean a bird, but he did disintegrate into smoke and vanish into the bottle.

Dean relaxed and fell into a nearby chair. Sam came around the corner from where he'd been hiding.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"It really worked?"

"Yep," Dean said. "I can hear again. Thank God. That was awful."

They put the bottle in one of the high security rooms. It earned its place in a warded box high on a shelf in a room with a special lock on a cold iron door. Dean thought it might be a bit overkill, but he wasn't anxious to start the whole ordeal over again. When it was done, he slipped into the garage and slid behind the wheel of the Impala.

"Hey, Baby," he said, running a gentle hand along the dash. "I'm back."

He turned the key in the ignition, not planning on going anywhere, just wanting to feel grounded. He grinned as the engine roared to life. "That's more like it!"

The radio came to life, Zeppelin filling the car. Dean relaxed back into his seat, letting his eyes drift closed as he listened.

He was almost dozing when Sam rapped on the window. With a sigh, he reached over and unlocked the door. Sam slid into the bench seat beside him. He was quiet for a long time.

Finally, he asked, "Did you really wish for all that?"

Dean frowned at him. "All what? Technically I never made a real wish to start with."

"Yeah, but the genie seemed to pull from things you said. Did you really ask to be taken care of?"

He had, after they had finished yelling at each other. And there was the crux. Their fight, and Sam being Sam, feeling like he'd somehow not taken care of Dean when he needed it. Dean really didn't feel like massaging his brother's bruised pride. "Look, man. I don't know what to tell you. Sure. Sometimes it would be nice not to have the fate of the entire world riding on my shoulders, you know. Sometimes I just get tired. I was angry and upset when I said that. I know you care, alright?"

"But –"

Dean cranked the music as When the Levee Breaks started to play. "You know, I should have wished for him to make you a real girl. Then at least you'd have an excuse for acting like one."

"God, you're such an asshole."

"Dork."

"Moron."


End file.
